


Lucky Seven

by molo (esteefee)



Category: Starsky & Hutch
Genre: First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-08
Updated: 2005-09-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 10:36:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,748
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/175966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/esteefee/pseuds/molo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Starsky is kidnapped.  He bleeds a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lucky Seven

**Author's Note:**

> For the Me&Thee "Blood" challenge. Takes place just after the episode _The Action._ Thanks to CC for the ever sterling beta.

Starsky watched the red trickling down his hand, a slow, creeping advance, until the crimson drop paused, dangling at the end of a fingertip. Kind of like the steam room the other day and another race of bodily fluids, but that time it had been innocent sweat dripping down their noses. A race, a bet.

A game.

"Hutch," Starsky whispered hoarsely to the empty air, "I don't like this game anymore. Come get me, huh?"

The droplet, heedless, swelled until at last it broke the surface tension and fell from his finger, only to be replaced by another.

The cuffs were too tight. Of course, it hadn't helped any that they'd used them as a convenient handle for dragging him here. Starsky winced and shifted his wrists. The musical clink reminded him of just last night, when Hutch had yanked his own cuffs from his pocket and dropped them onto his side table. His back had been turned, and Starsky had admired the faded circle in the ass pocket of Hutch's brown cords. Or, rather, he'd admired the roundness beneath, which was emphasized by the ring in the worn fabric.

Hutch had turned, and Starsky's eyes had risen automatically and drifted away. Hutch was saying something, talking fast and laughing, still high on the rush. They'd barely escaped with their lives that night.

 _Idiots should've known better than to give us **both** shovels...._

The deep red streak continued its silent progress down his numbed fingers. "We were supposed to dig our own graves," Starsky murmured. "Or maybe we were supposed to dig each other's. Only, I think if it came down to it, I'd rather share one with you, babe."

But the thought of sharing brought up the more uncomfortable memory of how the night had ended.

"Not like I planned," Starsky whispered.

Not that he had planned it at all.

 _Starsky followed his chattering partner to the kitchen, still feeling the flush high in his neck and face, even though hours had passed while they went through the usual wrap-up on the case. But it had been too close a thing. Only a small error in judgment by the wise guys had saved their skins. Nights like tonight had a way of sticking with you long after the wind-down._

 _Not surprisingly, he was sporting a boner, too, a quiet hum in his groin, as he often did from the rush of it._

 _In the kitchen, Hutch pulled a beer for him and Starsky laid it against his eyelids first before taking the bottle-opener and cracking it open. Hutch smiled, a blazing grin, and toasted him before taking a sip of his own. They didn't need to say anything. What was there to say? 'We made it'? Yeah, they'd made it through another squeaker; so close Starsky could still feel the cold whisper at the back of his neck._

 _And Hutch stood there smiling at him, looking ridiculously pleased with the world. He'd changed out of his ludicrous undercover get-up back at Metro and was wearing his favorite blue shirt. Starsky loved that shirt— had even tried to steal it a couple of times, though the sleeves were too long. But he just liked wearing it. Sometimes he didn't even wash it, first, so he could smell Hutch on him, around him. Of course, Hutch had always stolen it back without comment._

 _Starsky turned away from the white smile and headed toward the couch. Once there, he slumped down and barely acknowledged it when Hutch joined him, one warm thigh pressing against his own._

 _"What's up, buddy?" Hutch turned wide blue concern on him, but Starsky resisted the pull, trying to get his thoughts together. Was this a good time? Would there ever be? He felt the ghostly imprint of the Professor's loaded dice in his hand. The thing that had been building inside him for too long was demanding he roll them, once and for all. Sweat prickled in his hairline as he considered it._

 _Hutch slung a sudden arm around his shoulder, as if sensing his fear. "Hey, it's okay. We're okay," Hutch whispered._

 **  
 _He's oblivious._** Or was he? That was what Starsky had been chewing over for so long now. So many signals being passed, tangled among a hundred gestures of affection, so that nothing was clear at all. Only that Hutch cared about him. Of that, he was dead certain.

 _Starsky raised his beer bottle and ran it again along his face, this time over his forehead, and Hutch's hand dropped lower, catching him under his arm. Hutch shook him a little._

 _Starsky turned his head._

 _Ten thousand years of evolution had resulted in mankind having the ability to both express emotions and interpret them on other human faces. Ten years of knowing this particular human, and seven years of close partnership, should have given Starsky that much more insight. He knew Hutch better than he knew his own mother. And yet, staring into those eyes at that moment, he realized he knew zip. It would all have to come down to one throw of the dice._

 _Starsky rolled._

"Snake eyes," Starsky whispered, the cold hiss of his voice echoing in the damp basement.

He heard heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then two voices drifting down to him in argument.

"You were supposed to nab the _both_ of them, _sciocco_!" A deep voice, Italian accent.

"Couldn't do it, boss. We were all ready to move in when the blond one beat out of there like a bat outta hell. We were lucky to get the one. And, anyway, tight as they are, we figured we could use him as bait."

"Messy," was the response from the Italian. "Alright, let's see what we got."

Starsky straightened his back as best he could. The confining cuffs made it almost impossible, linked as they were through a ring in the floor. He licked his dry lips.

The shorter, darker man was a stranger to him. His brown eyes were narrow, his brows thick and unruly. He had no visible scars.

The other guy was one of the gorillas that had walked through Hutch's door the previous evening. Starsky had been sitting in morose numbness on the couch and barely reacted at first, thinking it was Hutch coming back to paste him one. By the time he had registered his mistake it was already too late.

The darker man was giving him the eyeball. Starsky returned the look with a sneer, the hair rising on the back of his neck as he realized that it was _not_ a good sign that this guy was giving him a good look at him.

"You, cop. Hutchinson, is it?"

"Yeah, I'm Hutchinson," Starsky said, unable to keep the wry tone from escaping.

"Boss, I think—"

"Shaddup. You're in the hots enough as it is," the darker man growled. The gorilla backed off.

"Well, cop, guess by now you're regretting closing down our little operation at the Marlborough."

Starsky's face must have registered his surprise, because the dark man laughed.

"You didn't think that pony of ours, Hillard, was running the show, did you? You've pissed off some very important people, cop."

Starsky's gut curdled with the knowledge of whom he was dealing with. Syndicate, for sure. He wasn't getting out of this basement still breathing.

"So make it easy on yourself, why don't you? Tell us how we can get in touch with your partner. Seems he's flown the coop."

Starsky rallied quickly. "Have you tried the topless bars? He's a big fan of the Jungle Club."

The slap registered as a cold bite on the inside of his cheek. Iron filled his mouth.

"Again, cop. Where can we find this pal of yours?"

"Stuff it."

Another smack, this time from the gorilla. Starsky's ears rang a little after that one.

"Last chance, Hutchinson, and then Nero here is going to cuff you to that beam over there and make you sing like Edith Piaf."

"Jesus Christ," Starsky muttered. "Who writes your damned dialog?"

Nero, he discovered, was less of a talker, more of a doer.

~ o ~

Starsky raised his head and winced up through the dim light at his cuffed hands for what seemed like the hundredth time. He had to keep checking they were there; they were so numb at this point that he could barely move his fingers.

The red was running in the opposite direction now, caressing his forearms and tickling at his inner elbow. He was in shadow, and the trails glistened black.

His neck got tired and his head dropped again. He focused on finding the best stance so that he was using the least amount of energy to stay upright and keep the weight off his wrists.

The TV in his head was stuck on an instant replay—Nero's fist coming at him, and no way to dodge or fight back. Still, it was better than the alternative: seeing a repeat of the expression on Hutch's face right before he fled his apartment.

 _Starsky pulled back from the kiss he'd just planted on Hutch. Hutch's face registered complete dumbfounded shock. He looked like Starsky had just smacked him with a two-by-four._

 _Not the kind of expression you hope to see on a prospective lover's face. Starsky hastily removed his hand from where it had crept high on Hutch's thigh._

 _"Wha-what...?" Hutch didn't seem to be able to form a coherent sentence. And suddenly the pale shock was supplanted by a deep stain of red, and he practically levitated off of the couch to back away._

 _"Hutch." This was not good. "Please, babe, don't freak on me—" Starsky rose from the couch and approached cautiously._

 _But Hutch held up a warning finger, his eyes glittering blue in the flushed face. "Don't."_

 _"Hutch."_

 _"Don't!" But then Hutch took two steps forward himself to grab the front of Starsky's shirt. "I'm not **like** that. I'm not. Not." His voice was low and anxious, each word punctuated with a shake. And then Hutch released him, and turned tail._

 _Starsky sank back onto the couch and dropped his head into his hands._

"Liar." Starsky said it to the ground between his feet, but Hutch's bright red face was in his mind's eye. And so was the bulge he'd seen in Hutch's crotch. " _Big_ liar." Starsky laughed a little, and then groaned when the movement tore at his aching ribs and mouth. The frightened, childish words of Hutch's denial continued to echo in his head.

"Who'da thunk it, Hutch," he grated softly, his voice dry and hoarse. "Sophisticated college guy like you. Egging me on about accepting Johnny for who he was. Guess it's okay as long as it's not too close to home, huh, buddy boy?"

Home. He wished he were there, right now. He imagined that was where Hutch would go first when he went looking. Because Starsky didn't doubt for a moment that he was. Searching for him desperately, and all the while blaming himself for running.

Starsky squinted up again at his hands for the hundred and first time, but they were still cuffed to the steel ring. No answers, there. No answers, and there wouldn't be unless Hutch somehow found him.

Pray God, before he was dead.

~ o ~

Nero, his friendly neighborhood gorilla, came in for another check. "Still ain't talkin', cop?" His heavy hands patted roughly at Starsky's swollen cheeks, and he clenched his teeth hard to keep from making a sound.

"We're gonna get your partner, you know. And then it's goodnight to the both of yas."

Starsky didn't bother to reply. He turned his head away and contemplated the standing water in the corner of the basement and the cracks in the foundation. Seven of them, running in rough parallel along the wall. "Seven's my lucky number," Starsky mumbled. His legs had started a crazy, fatigued trembling, and he shifted a little trying to find a better stance.

Nero snorted in disgust and turned to leave.

"You really should see about a new sump pump," Starsky said, earning a glare as the gorilla stomped out.

~ o ~

Starsky drifted a little, the cold and exhaustion dragging at his eyelids. But he didn't want to doze. He might be dead, soon enough.

Just like poor Jackson.

 _It was so goddamn unexpected. It seemed like one minute they were shooting hoops—Hutch roughhousing him around the yard while Junior dribbled circles around his dad—and only a scattering of minutes later, Jackson was gone._

 _Helping Junior took a priority over their own grief, but after it was all over, he and Hutch had huddled in Starsky's apartment, both red-eyed but unable to find any release._

 _They didn't drink, by mutual, unspoken agreement, because they knew Jackson would've given them shit for it. He'd had one too many alcoholics in his family. So instead they sat in the near-dark and talked softly, only occasionally glancing on memories of their friend._

 _Hutch kept close. He kept touching Starsky, giving him affectionate pats and shoulder bumps. Occasionally Starsky would feel a charge of fierce arousal, only to have it dampened moments later by his sadness._

 _Finally, Hutch rose to leave, but stopped at the door, looking strangely uncertain. Starsky walked up to him and waited._

 _"Starsk, I..." Hutch didn't finish, just stared at him through the dim moonlight._

 _Starsky swallowed nervously. He thought Hutch was teetering on the edge of saying something soapy, something that might break the fragile control they'd both held over their emotions all night. He felt an urge to forestall it, so he reached out and gave Hutch a gentle push on his chest, not quite a shove._

 _But Hutch seemed to willfully ignore the signal. Instead, he reached up and caught Starsky's retreating wrist. Starsky looked up and saw Hutch lick his lips. His mouth parted, but still, Hutch said nothing. Starsky's eyes rose higher, to the eyes gleaming down at him, and he saw something there. For the first time, he thought he saw a flicker of desire in Hutch's eyes._

 _Hutch's hand stayed there, the fingers enclosing Starsky's wrist, but lightly, like a gentle cage. One breath could break the fragile grip._

 _Starsky didn't breathe._

 _"I need…" Hutch whispered, confusion flooding his tone._

 **  
 _He doesn't know,_** Starsky thought, feeling Hutch's bewilderment like a weight.

 _The moment hovered while Starsky continued staring up at Hutch's face. The moonlight was pooling in the corners of his eyes, making them glow a little, making him look strange, his face an alien mask._

 _Starsky knew the instant the moment had paused too long, could almost hear the click of a door closing softly just before Hutch's hand dropped from his wrist._

 _"Well, g'nite, Starsk," Hutch said quietly, his voice beyond calm and into something else less benign. The sound made Starsky feel suddenly tired, as if he'd been carrying rocks upriver for an hour._

 **  
_He's putting it away. Pretty soon it won't ever have happened._   
**

_Maybe it never really had._

~o~

Gunfire startled him from his semi-doze. He'd been weaving slightly on his feet, the cuffs digging hard into his swollen hands, and when he jerked, a fresh stream of blood began a winding journey down his arm.

"Hutch," Starsky croaked, for there was nothing like the sound of that cannon of his. Thunder ripped over Starsky's head, and then shouting and the pounding of feet. He heard someone call out the all-clear.

Relief made him suddenly weak, and he swayed again in his bonds.

Then came the sound of hasty footsteps running downstairs.

Starsky forced himself to stand erect, pride straightening his spine. Hutch tore into the room, his eyes frantic, Magnum still in his hand. The glare of the single, bare bulb seemed to blind him for a moment, and he shielded his forehead with his left hand.

And then his eyes locked on Starsky.

"Starsk!" Hutch rushed over to him, already holstering his revolver. "Jesus." His strong arms wrapped around Starsky, holding him up. He let himself sag for a moment.

"Cuffs," he whispered hoarsely in Hutch's ear. "They're mine."

"Christ, yes. Sorry." Hutch reached into his pocket and produced a cuff key. Starsky continued to lean against the tall form while Hutch released his wrists from their confinement. Then Starsky dropped.

Hutch caught him and eased him to the floor. The sudden return of good circulation to his hands was excruciating, and he cried out, cradling them in his lap.

"Easy, babe. Easy. I've got you." Hutch turned his head and roared, "Medic! I need a medic down here!"

"I'm okay. I'm okay," Starsky gasped. "Just gimme a minute." But he didn't want to move. Ever. His head was on Hutch's shoulder, Hutch's arms were holding him upright, and Starsky's whole body was shaking with exhaustion. He slumped further, and the arms tightened around him, making him grunt with pain from the pressure around his sore ribs.

Hutch loosened his grip immediately. "You're hurt. Where else?"

"Ribs. Worked me over," was all he could get out.

"Okay. Hang in there, buddy. We'll get you to a hospital."

But Starsky was no longer hanging. He was down and safe. The only safe place there was.

Hutch kept mumbling at him, reassuring, soothing words, and Starsky started drifting, wondering idly if Hutch would still be willing to be this close to him after the fear and relief had passed. He knew it was an important question, but he couldn't muster enough curiosity to penetrate the haze wrapping itself around him. He pressed tighter to Hutch's warmth, and let go of thought.

~ o ~

Starsky awoke briefly in the ambulance, and then again in the ER, where a tall, gangly doctor was tut-tutting over his swollen hands and torn wrists. His ribs were already wrapped and he felt the muzzy goodness of painkillers.

"Thank you for joining us, Sergeant. Can you feel this?" The doctor scratched something at Starsky's fingertip, and his hand twitched.

"Uh huh," Starsky said, cotton balls in his mouth.

"Well, I don't think there's any permanent nerve damage. You did have enough blood circulating, although I'm sure it didn't feel like it." He proceeded to wrap Starsky's wrists in gauze bandages.

Starsky wasn't amused by the whimsical bedside manner.

"How long until they're better?" he mustered himself to ask.

"Oh, a few days and they should be right as rain. And we've wrapped your ribcage; you had a separated rib, but no fractures. Breathing won't be fun for a while." The doctor gave a whispery snort at his joke.

 _Goddamn funny-bones._ "Where's my partner? Is he around?"

The doctor's long face twisted into a grimace. "Is he ever. Won't leave any of us alone."

"Good. Can he take me home?"

The doctor looked surprised. "I don't see why not, as long as you promise to come right back in if you develop a fever or any other negative symptoms."

Starsky dropped his head back in relief and waited.

~ o ~

Hutch had him signed out and in the LTD within an hour, and drove with his focus intent on the road. Starsky sagged against the door and slitted his eyes, observing his partner's profile.

Not a word had been spoken beyond bureaucratic questions and answers as Hutch made the arrangements. Starsky knew Hutch probably felt as he did—that any talking should be done in private. Once they were home. Once they were safe.

An unexpected rain shower kicked up, and Hutch flicked on the wipers, which made muddy tracks on the windshield as they labored to sweep away the accumulated grime.

"Need new blades," Starsky said disapprovingly.

Hutch darted him a quick glance, but said nothing. He drove on.

~ o ~

"Need anything?" Hutch asked. He stood over the couch where Starsky was propped up against the arm, both feet stretched out in front of him. Lying down wasn't an option at this point. He was about as comfortable as he was going to get, for a while.

"Yeah."

Hutch waited, head tilted, his attitude attentive, but with an obviously forced calm.

Starsky sighed, not up for the necessary fight. If Hutch wouldn't broach the subject himself, Starsky would have to let it lie until he was in better form.

"I need you to tell me how you found me," was all he said.

Hutch hesitated, and Starsky knew he'd caught on to the bait-and-switch. But Hutch just sat down on the couch next to his legs and started talking. About the fevered lab analysis and canvassing of Hutch's neighborhood. The fingerprints that led them to the gorilla, once in the employ of Marlborough Club. The less-than-compassionate grilling of the imprisoned felon, Hillard. Then the break—a lead on the owner of the blue van that had transported Starsky to the small house in Orange County where he was being held.

Hutch related it all in an utterly dispassionate tone, his cheek not even twitching as he gave his account.

When he finished, Starsky cocked his head.

"What? Am I leaving something out?" Hutch wouldn't look at him.

"Yeah." Starsky searched for an oblique way to say it. "All of that must've taken some time. When did you...I mean how did you even know I was missing in the first place?"

Hutch's lips pressed together hard before he said, "I-I came back. And you were gone."

He didn't seem inclined to say any more. Starsky waited, his eyes dragging a little. He was exhausted. But he sensed something waiting in the silence, and opened them again.

Hutch was looking at him, a new softness to his face. Starsky suddenly felt very awake.

"I knew you wouldn't...that is, I was pretty sure you would...wait." Hutch's eyes dropped again.

"Wait?" Starsky took a deep breath and then regretted it instantly when his ribs protested. But he stifled his groan, his attention on the full lips that were opening and closing indecisively.

When Hutch finally spoke, his voice was almost too low to hear over the sound of the rain pattering against the roof. "Wait for me to-to stop being a jackass. Wait for me to come back. And then I saw the blood by the door...."

Starsky absorbed that for a moment. "When?" he whispered. "When did you come back?"

Hutch shrugged and rubbed his hands up and down on his thighs, a nervous movement. "Twenty minutes out, then I turned around again. Too late," he said, his tone full of guilt.

Starsky ignored the self-recrimination in favor of the more interesting bait. "What made you turn around?"

Hutch looked at him. Starsky waited, but nothing came out of the slightly gaping mouth. Starsky sighed.

"Did you come back just to tell me we could still be pals?"

Hutch winced and shook his head.

Hope flared, making Starsky's heart give a stuttering beat. "Maybe you came back to paste me one for getting fresh?"

The tiniest smile lit the corner of Hutch's mouth as he shook his head again, and Starsky felt it like a match strike.

He had trouble getting enough air as he asked, "Then, why? Why'd you come back?" He was done spoon-feeding the idiot. In fact, the ache in his ribs was now back to pre-painkiller levels, and he pretty much just wanted to fall asleep.

Only Hutch was looking at him—really looking at him, staring at him hard. And it would be near impossible to fall asleep with his heartbeat holding steady at a hundred and seventy beats per minute.

"I, uh. I w-wanted to tell you something."

"Yeah, huh?" Starsky looked to the side, giving Hutch a break. "So, tell me."

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the thick movement of Hutch swallowing.

"I lied."

 _No kidding._ "What about?" Starsky asked. Inside, a small volcano was forming where his heart had been.

A low whisper. "You _know_."

Yeah, he knew. But he'd be damned if he'd let Hutch off the hook so easy. He waited, and watched Hutch shifting uncomfortably, his hands still moving restlessly on his thighs.

"I _am_ like that...about you," Hutch finally said. His voice was so low Starsky could barely make out the words, but each one rang like a bell.

"Ah," Starsky said, and he relaxed against the cushion, not even realizing he'd tensed up until the pain had passed. He suddenly felt dizzy.

Hutch looked up at the sound, concern overtaking the embarrassment on his face. "Starsk?"

"Not bad for twenty minutes' work, Blintz." Starsky started to smile but his battered face made him think twice. "What made you figure it out?" He tried to sound casual about it.

A flush rose along Hutch's pale neck to ignite his ears.

"Guess it was the boner in your pants," Starsky commented slyly.

Hutch looked at him with disbelief. He sputtered, "You're ribbing me? About _this_?"

"Why not? Yank your chain about everything else, don't I?"

Hutch just kept staring at him, his eyes moving over Starsky's face, until they dropped to his mouth.

"Wanna kiss me?" Starsky said. He was unprepared for the sudden heat he saw flaming in the blue eyes.

Then Hutch blinked and it was banked away. "Not a good idea. Your lips look like a couple of sausages right now."

"I don't care," Starsky said. He added manfully, "Give it to me. I can take it."

A ghost of a smile traveled over Hutch's mouth before slipping away. He looked at Starsky's mouth again, and Starsky wet his lips, tasting the dried blood. They _were_ pretty swollen. But now Hutch was sliding to his knees beside the couch and leaning over him.

"Don't move," Hutch whispered.

Starsky had to swallow once, though, as he watched Hutch's slow approach. When their faces were mere inches apart, Hutch hesitated. Starsky closed his eyes, and waited.

Then he felt it—the softest touch, whisper light, of Hutch's lips against his own, and a glancing slide of wetness traveling back and forth. Starsky shivered. And then Hutch's tongue slipped along his bruised flesh so sweetly that he thought his heart would quit dead.

He opened his eyes just as Hutch pulled back, his lips damp and open, his eyes impossibly gentle and a little concerned.

"Wow," Starsky said.

Hutch didn't seem able to speak.

"I mean really," Starsky said.

Hutch's tongue came out to lick his own lips, as if gathering the taste of him, and Starsky's dick gave a startling throb.

"I liked that," Hutch whispered hoarsely.

"Well, they're here anytime you want 'em," Starsky said lightly, but his voice betrayed him by wavering a little.

Hutch frowned with concern and rubbed Starsky's shoulder with one hand. "I'm sorry. If I hadn't run—"

"If you hadn't run they would've got us both, Hutch. It worked out okay." The twinge in his ribs wanted to argue the point, and Starsky closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted.

"Need another pill?"

"Yeah, that would be good." He lay quietly and listened to Hutch moving around the kitchen, getting some water from the tap. Then he felt a gentle nudge on his arm.

Starsky let Hutch put the pill on his tongue and hold the glass for him, as his hands were still pretty stiff and useless. He swallowed it down before closing his eyes again.

"You're lucky, Blondie," he mumbled. "Lucky I'm in no shape right now to have my way with you. Give you a little time to get used to the idea."

He heard a soft laugh but caught a thread of apprehension in it. He wondered, idly, what Hutch was so hung up about. But he didn't have to think too hard. He'd seen pictures of Hutch as a little kid, with his thin-boned frame, pale head and big eyes. The kind of kid Starsky and his friends would've eaten for lunch. Or, at least, beaten up for lunch money, calling him all sorts of names.

Sometimes that stuff stayed with you.

But Starsky wouldn't let it get in the way. Couldn't. Not now that he'd tasted the sweetness.

"Had to roll the dice, babe," he mumbled.

"What's that, buddy?"

Starsky opened his eyes a sliver and saw that Hutch had settled on the floor beside the couch and was resting his head on the cushion, looking up at him. Hutch's hand came up to touch his forearm, rubbing softly.

"Lucky seven, Hutch."

Hutch smiled. "Let it ride."

 _Finis._

September 2005  
San Francisco, CA


End file.
